


Head In The Clouds (But My Gravity's Centered)

by pansexualorgana (MaximumMarygold)



Series: Tumblr fics [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, Hot Chocolate, M/M, plums, this was just a tumblr prompt and it was cute so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaximumMarygold/pseuds/pansexualorgana
Summary: "Stucky prompt, if you’re still taking prompts. Just them wandering around in the cold weather and getting hot chocolate at the end?"Christ, you could basically count his abs through his coat. All 32 of them.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Tumblr fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/192407
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	Head In The Clouds (But My Gravity's Centered)

**Author's Note:**

> i just had fun with this ok   
i know its bullshit that the first thing i post in 100 years is some tiny bitch ass lil stucky drabble but gimme a break.

It was, in all honesty, too fucking cold to be outside. Steve knew this, because Bucky had muttered it under his breath approximately seventy three times in the six minutes that they’d _been _outside.

But it was Bucky’s idea to go to the flea market in Central Park. His time on the run gave him a great appreciation for all of the outdoor markets – farmers, flea, art shows. 

So when Steve had said he wanted to carve a goddamn pumpkin nearly a month after Halloween and The Appropriate Time To Carve A Gourd, Bucky had jumped at the chance to scope out the newly erected pop-up market. And it was only a short walk from the tower, too. It would be great. The best day ever. He didn't even need to bring more than, like, four knives. HYDRA didn't give a shit about farmers markets.

And then they’d actually stepped outside and Bucky promptly regretted every decision he’d ever made that could have possibly led him to this point in his life. Starting first and foremost with befriending this punk ass golden retriever who refused to by clothes in his actual size.

Christ, you could basically count his abs through his coat. All 32 of them.

Maybe golden retriever was a little off – Steve was more like a bloodhound who refused to give up the scent of the pumpkin he was going to desecrate.

Mother fucker, they should have just gone to Whole Foods. 

“It’s fucking freezing.”

“Maybe if you’d stop whining about it, you could actually conserve some warmth,” Steve shot back with exactly 0 malice, throwing an arm over Bucky’s shoulder and tugging him in.

_Steve _was warm. _Steve_ was a goddamn furnace. 

“What the actual fuck, Steven,” Bucky hissed, even as he huddled more into the blessed warmth, “are you running a fever?”

“I just run hot,” Steve shrugged, “have since the serum.”

Goddamn if that didn’t make Bucky even angrier about the goddamn Great Value Walmart Brand serum he’d been shot up with. _He _didn’t get extra warm. _He _got nightmares. 

Okay, that thought was unfair. They both got nightmares. 

Steve still got the warmth though. 

“I am sleeping with you until Spring,” Bucky decided and stated without any input at all from the filter that was supposed to hang out between his brain and his big fucking mouth.

Shit.

He chanced a look up.

Oh, yeah. Blush central.

Fuck. They were supposed to be taking it slow.

But he really didn't mean it sexually. He just wanted to be able to shove the icicles that occasionally passed as his toes under the super-heated tree trunks that were Steve's legs. 

“I meant. Like. Using you as a hot water bottle.” With abs. So many abs.

Steve cleared his throat, but he didn’t push Bucky away and that was a win, “Yeah, Buck. The bed’s more than big enough.”

Goddamn right it was. Bucky had never seen a bed that big. An _Alaska _King. You could fit the entire team in that thing and still have room for Natasha's dog.

They meandered through the market and Bucky was sufficiently distracted by the amount of produce they managed to grow in New York City in fucking _November_. Nothing should be able to grow in this weather. It was fucking freezing. His balls were about to just break the fuck off and tumble to the pavement. He'd have to get a vibranium scrotum. (He might ask Tony for one later, just to watch his face. He needed some sort of entertainment while Steve wasted a perfectly good pumpkin that could have made a lovely pie.) 

Greenhouses, apparently, were the secret. He would like to live in one; Avengers Tower be damned. Avengers Tower didn't grow _plums_.

Honestly, Bucky didn’t care if the secret was goddamn baby tears, he bought two pounds of fresh goddamn plums the week before Thanksgiving and he was over the fucking moon about it.

Thanos himself couldn’t ruin his day. 

_Plums_.

Steve had wandered away at some point while he had been carefully inspecting every single plum the poor woman had to offer. 

Just to cement the whole bloodhound analogy, it would appear the Bucky needed to put the man on a leash.

Earth’s mightiest fucking defender. More like Earth’s mightiest dickhead who got distracted by anything shiny.

There was a whole section of the market devoted to artists – selling pre-made pieces, doing sketches right then and there, and, where Bucky eventually found Steve, some who were selling art _supplies_.

Even without his human furnace, Bucky felt warm.

Steve hadn’t drawn in a good long while. Since he came out of the ice, really. And he got super fucking squirrely when asked about it.

So Bucky, not being an idiot, turned on his heel and marched back towards the produce to find his big, dumb idiot a big, dumb, _motherfucking _pumpkin.

And the irony of the whole situation was that Bucky practically froze his goddamn balls off for Steve to carve a stupid pumpkin and _no one in the market was selling pumpkins_.

Bucky found _plums (_which, thank you giant turtle in the sky) but the produce that was actually in season? No dice.

They were going to end up at Whole Foods anyways.

Fuckin' bullshit.

He did, however, find a stand selling hot chocolate. And not that shitty powdered bullshit that Clint tried to force down his throat. Like, real hot chocolate. Made in a fucking pot on the stove, with heavy cream and milk and a lot of stirring. 

Bucky bought two of the largest size they offered and got the old man’s card. There really was a god and his name was Henning Farrell. He apparently owned a diner on 4th street where they could get real hot fucking goddamn shitting chocolate all goddamn year round.

November? Hot chocolate.

March? Hot. Chocolate.

July? Hot. Motherfucking. Chocolate.

By the time he found Steve again, the other had a small, clear plastic bag and a soft, shy smile on his face that only widened when Bucky held out the styrofoam cup of liquid happiness. 

“Real hot chocolate, Stevie.” Was all he said. He wasn’t going to question the bag. He was just going to let Steve do his thing.

Steve would share when he was ready.

“Also,” Bucky added, staring up at the sky with a tiny, content smile as the first of what was sure to be a shit ton of snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, “I have been to every corner of this market, and there are exactly zero pumpkins.”

“Well, shit,” Steve said back, though he really didn’t sound all that torn up about it, settling back into his preferred position with his arm around Bucky, all up in his space like he owned it.

Which, eh. That was a fair assumption.

Punk ass little shit. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you think this was too sweary im just here to remind you that bucky worked on the docks in new york in the 30s. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr; PansexualOrgana


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